


My Best Shirt

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Follows Champagne on airplane canon, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is one of my best shirts, Bedelia” he states flatly, moving their omelets to plates with a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t have many dress shirts since they effectively went on the run and the fact that she’s wearing one to walk around in, leisurely, angers him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Best Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Hannibal, although I want some Hanni/Bedelia naughty scenes next season. I need it 0.0
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt from: game-over-man-game-over "Bedelia wearing one of Hannibal's dress shirts? Or perhaps rocking an awesome three-piece suit just like him, and his reaction :)"

The smell of breakfast wafts through the small cottage, waking her from deep slumber. He hears her shuffle upstairs and he briefly leaves the pan, only to see her tiny little feet descend the stairs. Her delicately painted red toes glint as she takes each step. Her steps are drowsy, but eager. They are not calculated, like the steps she takes with her heels. Returning to his craft, refusing to burn their first ‘official’ meal in their new home, he flips the omelet-fresh meat sizzling inside. He realizes, as he delicately sprinkles seasonings that he hadn’t checked on her all morning, hadn’t gotten a look at her since he’d covered her naked body this morning. Had she vomited today? Had the smell of eggs upset her stomach? The news was fresh to him and he still finds himself forgetting. He remembers grabbing her hand on the plane, tightening his grasp. They would be fine. He would protect them

When she enters the kitchen he’s flipping off  the heat to the stove, his back turned to her.

“Did the smell upset you,” he asks innocently, concerned for her health. The sickness had been rather bad in the past week, and he remembers the gentle way she excused herself  to the bathroom several times during their flight. He remembers drinking for the both of them. He wished he could prescribe the medication that would alleviate the sickness, but the medical license is simply a piece of paper that now bears names that no longer belong to them. Two days ago, he’d finally pushed her to visit the small clinic. It was safe. She would be fine.  When she returned sans medication and slammed the door to their bedroom, effectively shutting him out, he gave the good Doctor a visit. Yesterday morning, when she answered the door, he’d simply handed her a small bottle filled with pills. He hoped the medication worked, so she could eat. The good Doctor sure did smell delicious.

“Smells heavenly,” she mumbles, her voice still heavy with sleep. She wraps her arms around him, pressing her face into the muscles of his back. The smile on his lips fades when he looks down at her arms and notices the shirt sleeves.

 “This is one of my best shirts, Bedelia” he states flatly, moving their omelets to plates with a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t have many dress shirts since they effectively went on the run and the fact that she’s wearing one to walk around in, leisurely, angers him.

“It _was,”_ she begins, her voice sultry, “before you ripped most of the buttons off in your hast last night.” Her breath his hot on his back when she plants a chaste kiss there. His smile returns and he unfastens her arms from around his waist, turning to greet the small woman who only meets his nipples at eyelevel without her heels. When he faces her, he feels warmth in his stomach, his penis hardening in the plaid sleep pants, their breakfast forgotten on the countertop.

The shirt sits open, buttons here-and-there plucked clean last night, exposing the creamy flesh of her body. His dress shirt, specially tailored to fit his form, looks quite lovely hanging from hers. Her darkened nipples are hard against the threaded fabric, and he admires her swollen breasts. Slipping his gaze below he sees the soft swell of her abdomen. He loves gazing at the small, hardened bump, barely noticeable until she removed her clothes. She’s wearing black lace and he can’t restrain himself any longer, his erection now pressed against her body.

He kisses her roughly, and her tongue slides into his mouth, returning his zeal. He can feel it pressing against his cheek and suddenly he bristles when her hands slip into the waist of his sleep pants, cupping him. He lifts her onto the countertop and she lays back, breathing heavily as the shirt opens completely and the cold air runs over her sensitive nipples. He slips one into his mouth, swirling the areola, and she moans. His fingers slide over the lace of her panties and pull the dainty material down her baby-oil-smooth legs. He slips a cautious finger inside her, delighted to feel the wetness, delighted to hear her sharp intake of breath. He then slips in another, and then a third and her hips buck. He brushes one finger, feather light, over her clit, and observes the way her eyes close when he teases her again, and again, refusing to allow her release.

“Hannibal,” her voice is heavy and husky. A warning. Don’t toy with me. He smiles and looks down at her. Sweat has begun to pucker her delicate skin, and the shirt pools beautifully around her body.  

When he slips inside her, eliciting a gasp, he can’t take his eyes off of her. She pants as he continues to thrust and her fingers claw at his bare back. Her legs tighten around his waist and when she comes he can only hear his own name on her lips, cried out in ecstasy. When he’s finished, he rests his head in her hair, taking the intoxicating scent into his nostrils. He withdraws and looks down at his spectacle of a partner, her breaths deep and labored, legs hanging limply, dripping. She looks beautiful with her cheeks flushed and glazed-over eyes. He runs his hands over her stomach and her eyes close gently. He hears a small content hum from the back of her throat. He thinks of the shirt, and how her body will grow. The fabric will become taunt around their unborn child. She looks so stunning. She smiles and pulls him to her with her delicate hands.  She presses her lips against the shell of his ear, her breath warm against his skin.

“Do you have any other best shirts?”

Perhaps he does.  

 


End file.
